


Clinical Trial

by demonfox38



Series: DLC from DF38 [4]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Medical Experimentation, Parasites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: In order to support his mother's lifestyle, the Demoman enrolls in an experimental hospital trial. A million bucks should be worth a few weeks of suffering, shouldn't it?
Series: DLC from DF38 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677937
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Clinical Trial

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published around 2013 on Tumblr. Due to its graphic nature, I later removed it from the site. However, I still had a local copy of it backed up, so here it is, freshly cleaned (or gored up, depending on how you look at it.) 
> 
> I mean, after pulling "Moon Line" and "Transplant" on this site, I think this can see the light of day again. Just know that it's gonna get very, very uncomfortable.

One million bucks. Two weeks. 

It seemed like a good deal for the Demoman. Even if he made a cool five million USD a year, he could always stand to make a little more cash on the side. His mother needed every extra dime he could get. She was no spring chicken, after all. Her health was starting to fail. Unfortunately, in the United States, that meant huge medical debts. So, whom better to get money from than the people taking dosh from his mum?

“So, what’s the catch?” the Demoman asked the doctor.

The woman smiled. “You will have to be in isolation the entire time. No external contact. We will provide you a room in our facility. We give you pills in the morning, and you tell us your symptoms throughout the day. When your time is up, we’ll release you and wire the money to your account.”

“Sounds fair,” the Demoman agreed. “I’ll have to ask my employers for permission, though.”

“Mann Co, right?” the doctor questioned. “That’s not a problem. We’re the ones that provide Mann Co. with their…medical wares.”

The Demoman narrowed his eyes. “You mean those nasty piss pills that our Sniper keeps taking.”

“Trust me,” the doctor cooed, side-stepping the accusation. “We’ll take good care of you. Your employers will have you back in no time.”

With a nod, the Demoman sealed their agreement. “Alright. Let’s do this.” 

The doctor beamed. “We’re really glad to have you with us, Mister DeGroot. Truly. You are a wonderful candidate.”

It wasn’t hard to get set up for the trial. All he had to do was sign a few wavers, some forms here and there. He didn’t care too much. Worst case scenario, he died and respawned in Teufort. No big deal. With any luck, he’d be in the placebo group. Then, it was just two weeks of light rest and relaxation. 

A vacation, really.

Before he was moved to his ward, the nurses gave him a few general tests. Height, weight, blood pressure, so on. He was in good health. Well, good enough, outside of his drinking. He had to give that up for the trial, but it didn’t seem to be a bad sacrifice. All things considered, perhaps it would help him kick the habit.

There had been one last test performed on him. It required his incapacitation. Frustrating, perhaps, but he didn’t see another way around it. It had been a few years since he had his colon and prostate checked. Or, maybe they wanted to look at his liver. That was probably it. When he woke up, he hardly felt ill at all. There was a little bit of pain in his lower abdomen, but nothing concerning. 

The first day, he had been fine. Meds, taken. Meals, eaten. He read and wrote notes, studied the clouds outside, counted the ticks of the clock and listened to gossipy nurses. It was all well enough, if a bit boring.

Then, he was yelled at. 

He had to do something to keep himself active. A little pacing, some stretching, just base amounts of exercise. He was in the middle of a set of crunches when he attracted the attention of an irritable nurse. She stormed into the room, ready to swat the Demoman with her clipboard. “No exercise!”

“What?” the Demoman laughed. “I thought ye docs were all about exercise.”

“None! No! It’ll throw off the results,” the nurse barked at him. “Stop, or I will have to remove you from the study.”

The Demoman surrendered. “Fine, then. I’ll behave.”

It didn’t take him long after that incident to discover that he wasn’t in the control group. The symptoms from the pills were slow to catch up with him. All the same, they came. On the second day, he felt dizzy. On the third, nauseous. Then, on the fourth, he vomited. 

He didn’t know why he had. Usually, he had a fair enough appetite. When the doctors had slipped him his medication, he had taken that. Just the food…he couldn’t eat it. He felt cold and anxious. His bladder was under pressure, his stomach was in knots. Toast was too wild for him, of all things. 

The nurses were none too pleased with him refusing his lunch. “Why aren’t you eating, Mister DeGroot?” 

“Can’t,” he replied. “Keep throwing up.”

They were quick to fix that. More pills. Always more pills. He sighed, but he took them. What did it matter, right? Even if he was killing himself, he just had to survive long enough to get the check cleared. Refusing to take the pills was unacceptable. He had to do that, no matter what. He owed it to his mother.

Day Six was when he knew he was in trouble. It had started when he got up to use the restroom. There was a freezing shiver that ran through him as he stood up. Vertigo, most likely. Whatever took him knocked him out quickly. Within seconds, he was on the floor.

When he woke up, nurses were tending to him. The Demoman shifted upright, then shuddered. “Where am I?” 

“We had to take you to the intensive care unit,” another nurse informed him. “You fainted. Don’t you remember?”

The Demoman nodded. “I—yes, I do.” He shifted upright, then smirked. “Still want me in the trial?”

“Oh, of course, Mister DeGroot!” the nurse chirped. 

A hospital was supposed to take care of people. As terrible as the Demoman was feeling, he could at least know that they weren’t trying to kill him. He crossed his legs, then sighed. That money was still too sweet for such easy work. 

How could he walk away from all that money just because he was feeling a little off?

* * *

He had forgotten how many days had passed. It had been easy when he could see the sun spinning outside or clocks ticking. There were no white walls or cheerful windowsills here. It was just a bed and a small toilet. Nurses would leave him crossword books or novels, from time to time. No magazines. No newspapers. No television. 

No time.

The Demoman picked up a pencil and a sheet of paper from a small tray next to his bed. He didn’t have envelopes or postage, but he could at least pretend to write letters. It was a way to pass the nebulous time. It was so easy to write to the Medic about what was happening to him—the nausea, the aching, his fatigue. He knew little about the drugs being given to him, other than their side effects. Perhaps it would be something the German could research in the meantime.

It was relaxing to write to the Engineer. Even having an imaginary reply from the Texan boosted the Demoman’s spirits. Talking with the Sniper was calming, too. He wasn’t one for taking bullshit lying down. If he were here, he would have torn each and every one of the nurses a new butthole by now. So would the Soldier, perhaps the Heavy. The Spy would have given him confidence. The Scout wouldn’t ever shut up, so he wouldn’t have to dwell on his fears. He wasn’t sure what he’d say to the Pyro, but he would be just as good to babble at.

There was another ring coming from the door. “Mister DeGroot.”

The Demoman set his letter down. “I’m decent.”

A pale, trembling hand dropped a container just beyond the crack in his door. “It’s time for another urine test.”

“Okay. Be back in a tick,” the Demoman replied.

He snatched the container from the door. There was a sharp click from the other side. The Demoman gave the door a dirty look. Why were they locking it? He gave the door another study, then grimaced. There were no locks on the inside. How strange. He would have expected something like this in a psychiatric ward, but not a testing ward.

“What’s up with the door?” the Demoman asked.

“P-please fill the container and return it,” the nervous nurse stammered from the other side.

The Demoman shrugged. They did say that they wanted to take this double-blind trial very seriously. He owed it to his mother not to screw it up. He popped the lid off the plastic container, then walked to the restroom. This was no problem to him.

Tugging his pants lower, the Demoman reached down. He frowned again. He could feel what he was looking for, but he couldn’t see it. How had he not noticed before? There was a slight bloat to his stomach. He growled, trying to focus on doing his business. It was probably from laying around the hospital all the time. Between the meals and his inactivity, he was putting on weight. Not being able to find his junk on sight was frustrating.

He finally relaxed and filled the sample. It would be okay, once he got back to the battlefield. If he wasn’t killed and respawned with his healthier self, then he would have the weight run off in no time. Even the biggest teammates had lost weight just by running around and gunning people to death. He smiled, laughing at his predicament. 

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured to himself.

“Are you done in there?” the nurse called.

The Demoman raised his head. “Yeah. Just a moment.” He screwed the container’s lid back on, then sat it next to the door. As he returned to the sink to wash up, he called for the nurse. “Come ‘n—”

There was a sharp clack, a swipe, and a slam behind him. 

“—get it,” the Demoman finished.

* * *

Thirteen kilograms.

The Demoman lay on the bed, his eyelids heavy. He had barely figured it out, himself. He knew he was gaining weight. Just…his mind kept spinning on the number. Thirteen kilograms. That was enormous. It couldn’t just be liquid accumulating or constipation. There was no way his organs could manage that. He didn’t know how his skin was standing it. 

The majority of his gained mass hung around his torso. It was round, swollen, hard. There were times he slept, thinking he was holding onto a pillow, only to wake up with his hands around his stomach. If he laid on his back, this weight would squash his organs. If he walked too much, his lungs would catch up and seize. The thick protrusion from his gut was unwieldy, uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if even the Heavy’s gut stuck out this much.

He stroked his belly. “Can’t be much longer. They’ve…they’ve gotta be done with me, soon.”

The Demoman frowned. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. Not that he had been a complete supermodel, but he had a charming strength before. The trail of hair below his navel traveled much further than it had ever in his life. His belly button was threatening to pop outward. Even this habit of massaging himself was unnatural. It wasn’t a behavior befitting a man like himself. 

Sleep was just about to lull the Demoman out of his body when his stomach moved. The Demoman shot upright. It was as if someone had stretched two arms around him. He paused, then placed a hand on his swollen belly. It had gone quiet again. He lowered his gaze, wondering if he had been hallucinating. It had to be the drugs messing with him. First, the exhaustion, then the nausea, then the swelling, and now—

His massive stomach rolled again.

“Nurse!” the Demoman shouted. “There’s—there’s somethin’ wrong!”

There was a creak from outside. A new, low voice answered him. “Go to sleep, Mister DeGroot. You’re frightening the other patients.”

“Oh, God,” the Demoman gasped. His shirt was rolling. “Help! My stomach’s—”

“I will find you a sedative if you do not calm down,” the nurse replied. 

Cold panic flooded the Demoman’s veins. He had to cut it out. Whatever was accumulating in his body, he had to rip it out and drain it. Screw the trial. Screw the hospital. Screw the money. His mother…she’d have to understand. He searched the tray next to his hospital bed. His pencils were gone, hidden cutlery taken away. He wobbled upright, trying to reach the bathroom. If he could break the porcelain toilet or the sink, he could cut this out of him. Easy. Simple. Necessary.

The Demoman stumbled as another wave of movement surged through his torso. He could hardly catch his breath. He felt stuffed full of tiny, crawling things. They surged up and down, in and out, around him. He pulled his shirt upright, watching the movement with a bulging eye. Little bumps surged beneath his skin. He placed his hands around his body, trying to squeeze the movements still. They moved towards his hands. Dozens of little protrusions reached upwards, stroking his palms.

A terrible realization came to the Demoman. “Somethin’s alive in me.”

The rolling stopped as he crashed to the ground.

* * *

Pre. E. Clamp. Si. A.

The Demoman’s brain tried to hold onto that word. It meant something bad. It meant that the nurses should be doing something to help him. They were changing his medications, giving him muscle relaxants. There were times—perhaps days, how was he to know—where they relaxed too many muscles, and he would soil himself. But, they were supposed to help him live. 

Dying would mean freedom from himself. He wanted it so terribly. And why would the nurses care? Sure, they wanted one sample to survive. He was one of twenty. Vestigial. Unnecessary. Still, they fed him and spoke softly with him, never once looking down. It was as if even they couldn’t bear to see how swollen they had made him. Vultures. All circling around him, waiting for him to crack. 

Or burst.

He didn’t consider this fleshed thing around him his own body anymore. How could it be? All of its power and resources went to feeding his burgeoning stomach. The only thing he could be grateful for was that the thrashing from within him was slowing down. There wasn’t enough room inside him for the strange rocking bumps. Hell, there was hardly enough room inside his body for his own brain.

It was best to keep asleep. He was still himself in his mind, the bombastic, high-spirited warrior that lived in the sun. Outside of himself, everything rocked and trembled. He wondered if he could even be himself in his head. All he had there were memories. Everything else was chemicals, protein, flesh, fat. 

There was movement at the door. The Demoman kept his eye closed. The nurses would leave him alone, most of the time, if he remained asleep. Locks tumbled. The door squeaked open, and white light flooded the dark room. The Demoman sighed. What was the point of hiding? They had done this shameful thing to him. They were going to prod and examine him, whether or not he wanted it. He opened his eye, focusing on the dark shadow standing in the doorframe.

His eyebrows pinched. It was male. The first male he’d seen in—oh, he didn’t even know anymore. The Demoman raised his head, fighting to get his eye to focus. The shadow had sharp shoulders, a solid, proper stance. The Demoman’s jaw dropped. So did the shadow’s. Both stared at each other in wild surprise and terror.

“Spy?” the Demoman asked.

“Demoman?” The Spy’s eyes were fixed on the bulge beneath the Demoman’s shirt. “Merde! What is zhat?”

The Demoman pushed himself onto his elbows. “I don’t know.” He gasped again, barely able to get enough air to speak. “I need help.”

“I should say so,” the Spy agreed. 

The lithe Frenchman pulled on the Demoman’s left arm. The Scotsman complied with his urges. He placed one bare, swollen foot in front of the other. Walking was taxing. He glanced down to the front of his shirt, a large hospital scrub shirt that did little to cover his belly. Cold tremors went through him again. He shivered in the Spy’s grasp.

“I need the Doc,” the Demoman pleaded. 

The Spy nodded. He sat the Demoman down. With a sharp click, he placed his hand to his ear. He pulled a small microphone from the device wrapped around it. “Medic.”

“Ja?” came the faint reply.

“I’ve located zhe Demoman,” the Spy said. He looked at his friend with pity, then spoke again. “Zhere’s something wrong wizh him. We require assistance.”

Ever eager to help, the Medic spoke quickly. “What’s wrong with him?”

The Demoman spoke his saved word slowly. “Preeclampsia.” 

The Spy’s spine went rigid. “What? Zhat’s—”

“—absolutely impossible!” the Medic finished. “Only vomen—oh, mein Gott. Zhey couldn’t have—”

The Spy was short-tempered. “Medic. What do we do?”

“Get a wheelchair. Find an elevator.” The Medic was quick to hand out orders. “Ve have zhe front door open. Zhe Heavy will get you zhere. Move! Mach schnell!”

The Spy bent down, then threw the Demoman’s arm around his shoulders. With a small grunt, he was able to pull the Scotsman forward. The two wobbled out to the hallway. The Demoman’s one good eye struggled to see in the blinding fluorescent lights. He held himself upright, leaning on a nearby wall as the Spy searched the hall for a wheelchair. A smile came to him. Blood had saturated the floors. His teammates weren’t screwing around. They had come to extract some revenge. Within short order, the Spy had the Demoman secured and pushed into an elevator.

“How long?” the Demoman asked.

The Spy frowned, his eyes still fixed on the Demoman’s torso. “Three weeks.”

“Bullshit!” the Demoman exclaimed. He put a hand on his ballooned stomach. There was no way—not without severe internal and external damage—just no way!

Finally, the Spy smiled. “It is good to hear you say zhat.”

There was a small ding from the elevator. The doors flew open. More carnage was splashed across the halls. The Heavy was waiting for the duo at the elevator’s entrance. His satisfied grin dropped when he saw the Demoman’s condition. He gave a squawk too high-pitched for the massive Russian. 

“You! You are as big as I am!” the Heavy exclaimed.

“I—oh,” the Demoman frowned. He wasn’t kidding. The exhausted Scotsman stepped out of the wheelchair, standing next to the Heavy. His stomach protruded just a little further than the Russian’s. He felt absolutely ashamed. How could that man be so big and move so fast? All of the shit he had talked about the Russian before…how could he have been so callous?

The Heavy shook his head. He bent down, then wrapped his arms around the Demoman’s shoulders. It was faster for him to assist the bloated Scotsman than it was for the Frenchman to push him. The men bolted down the hall, quick to rejoin the Medic in the lobby. The mad German was having his fun, pumping a dozen needles into a neon sign.

“Doctor? We are ready,” the Heavy said.

“Ah! Good timi—Scheiße! You are huge!” the Medic exclaimed.

The Demoman sighed. “Say it’s a tumor.”

“I—ahh—err, ve’ll have to find out,” the Medic side-stepped the question. He knocked aside the hospital’s doors, bolting for an open van door. All four charged inside, the Demoman barely able to waddle in.

There was a cheerful crack from the front of the van. “Oy, wanker! Been a while since I’ve—Hooley, Dooley! Tavish, you’re ‘bout to explode!”

“I’d like to see you come out in better shape,” the Demoman grunted. He growled as his guts seized up again. The Heavy and the Spy pressed against him, holding him upright as the van jostled forward.

“Fair enough,” the Sniper agreed. “Hang on. This is about to get rough.”

The Demoman put his head down. “If I puke back here, I ain’t cleanin’ it up.”

* * *

For the first time in weeks, the Demoman didn’t want to fall asleep. He leaned his head back, watching Archimedes and the flock gather for the strange surgery. The Medic had sealed the front doors to his infirmary shut. Eager eyes were watching the Medic perform from outside glass walls. Only the Engineer had been allowed into the operating room. Even if he wasn’t as medically knowledgeable as the Medic, his intelligence would serve the operation well. If nothing else, his presence kept the Demoman calmer than any drug would have.

“Thank ye,” the Demoman wheezed.

The Engineer patted the Demoman’s hand. “I’m so sorry. We—we should’ve come sooner.”

“Two weeks. Plus one more. It’s…who would have…” The Demoman couldn’t think straight. He just let everything crash together in a smile.

The Medic cranked his operating tools and medi-beam around. He was fully prepped, hands cleaned but glove free. He was a peculiar man, always wanting to operate openly. He gave the Engineer and the Demoman a smile. “Alright. Let’s not delay zhis anymore, shall ve?”

There were no objections.

Most days, the Demoman would have hated to take a blade to his stomach. With the cooling, soothing medi-beam on him and his friends watching, he was satisfied. The Medic’s scalpel cut a smooth, horizontal line a few inches below his belly button. He hardly felt it, thanks to the medi-beam. There was a dark smile on the Medic’s face. “Not a lot of visceral fat. Second cut—Engineer, prep suction.”

Another slice went through the Demoman’s warm flesh. The Scotsman laid his head back, trying not to watch too much. It was strange, having such a gentle operation from the Medic. Usually, he was more than happy to cleave the Demoman’s torso in two and rummage around like he had lost his keys in the Scotman’s organs. Now, he was focused, cautious.

“Oh, dear!” the Medic shouted. He let loose with an awkward cackle. “That wasn’t in here the last time I opened you up!”

The Engineer’s eyebrows lowered. “What in Sam Hill—”

“Just get the damn thing out of me,” the Demoman growled. “I’m sick of feelin’ like a bloody haggis.” 

The Medic shrugged. Good enough for him. He reached for two forceps, then began digging them inside the Demoman’s body. “Necrotized flesh. It looks like—zhere, see? A bad connection. His body was rejecting this implant.”

“Come again?” the Demoman asked.

There was a pull beneath him. Something dark and massive plopped into the Medic’s lap. It was slimy, writhing. The Engineer grimaced at the organ. He reached inside the Demoman’s body, clearing blood away. There was another pinch, and a slick tube fell out. The Medic pushed the diseased organ aside. It landed haphazardly in a metal bucket, sloshing and wriggling. 

It didn’t take long for the Medic to mend the Demoman shut. The Scotsman sat upright, jaw trembling and eye wide. The skin on his torso was still a bit loose, a little unattractive. It wasn’t thirteen kilograms of bloated, twitching disease. He could breathe deeply, his lungs now the fullest organ in his body. He put a hand over his mouth, his body shaking from his own joy and not some parasitic creatures.

He latched onto both the German and the Texan. “Thank ye. I—I can’t…” He burst into tears when two arms wrapped around his much trimmer body, just holding and patting his back. There was cheering and high-fives outside, the team ecstatic to have their friend returned and healthy.

The Medic patted the Engineer on the shoulder. “Get him to a cot. I need to clean.”

The Engineer complied. He held his arms out. The Demoman took them, but not to be carried away. He placed one foot on the ground, then another. Slowly, easily, he walked on his own feet, the short Engineer holding onto him so he wouldn’t tumble. The team stayed back from the door, only crowding around the two as they finally exited the operating room.

The Medic smiled. It was the happiest he had seen his team in almost a month. As much as he was fascinated by the joyous whooping, he had cleanup to do. He rinsed his tools first, then his hands. His doves followed him. Peculiar. The little rats loved poking around dead flesh. Why weren’t they pecking at the dead—whatever that organ was in the bucket? It looked like a pouch—perhaps a uterus—but he couldn’t rightly call it that. It had no ovaries attached to it, and it never had. It moved like flesh, but it had felt wrong, not like muscle. Not an even pull and stretch. More like a fleshed burlap sack.

Whatever it had been, whatever it had carried—it didn’t matter any longer. 

The diseased organ sat, black and putrid, now still and lifeless.


End file.
